I woke to bright sunlight blasting its way around the blinds and draperies of Aunt Mae-Jo’s guest bedroom. I squinted against the shock of it then blinked several times in an effort to try to figure out where I was and why. Like a memory best left asleep but shaken nonetheless, the previous days’ events came back to me. Finding the secret room at the big house, the horrors of the photographs and the notes and records my great-grandfather had made and kept. Learning about Bettina Godwin . . . about Aunt Stella . . . wondering who she’d loved enough to become pregnant by and who’d not loved her enough to marry her when she’d become with child.
I rolled over onto my back, pushed wisps of hair from my face, raking it with my fingers, then rested the palm of my hand against my forehead, applying pressure as though to force some sort of understanding into my overburdened brain. For several minutes, in the dissipating chill of the room, I struggled to remember everything she’d ever told me about Valentine Bach. Nothing, I decided after several minutes, was indicative in any form that she’d had a relationship with him, much less that she’d trusted him enough to give him her child to raise.
The now familiar and warming smells of coffee and fried bacon stirred me from my thoughts. I breathed in deeply and stretched, then tossed the covers off my body, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and reached for my robe at the end of the bed and my slippers nearby on the floor. I descended the stairs, once again warmed by the pleasant familiarity of being here—not just at Mae-Jo and Bob’s but in the countryside township known as Cottonwood. With a smile I made my way to the kitchen, where Karol sat at the table, munching on scrambled eggs. “Well, good morning, Mary Sunshine,” she said. “Mae-Jo here was just saying if you didn’t wake in a minute or two we’d call the coroner.”
I smiled as I shuffled over to the counter and picked up a plate and coffee mug, threw a kiss at Aunt Mae-Jo, and then waited dutifully for my plate to be topped with grits, bacon, eggs, and toast and my mug filled with coffee. “I’m going to gain a hundred pounds if this keeps up.”
Mae-Jo beamed in pleasure; no greater compliment could be paid a true Southern woman. “You could use some weight on those bones.”
“Look who’s talking,” I said as I made my way to the table and sat with a plop. I looked at Karol and mouthed, “Have you said anything?”
She shook her head no. “Did Evan call last night?” she asked.
“He did.”
Karol raised her brow, and I shook my head. No, I hadn’t said anything to him about what I’d learned. Mostly he’d rattled on and on about life in Druid Hills and at work. The more he talked, the more I realized how little I connected Druid Hills to home.
Mae-Jo joined us at the table and asked, “So, what’s on the agenda for you two businesswomen today?”
I looked at Karol. “I need to get you back to Raymore,” I said.
“That you do,” she said as she crumpled her napkin and placed it on her foodless plate. “Mark Michaels will have my hide if I don’t send him some positive reports by this evening. I still have a few folks who are holding out for more money or just not wanting to see any changes come to Cottonwood, but part of my job is to shower charm on folks.” She grinned at us and we laughed.
I took a sip of coffee. “I’ll take you to Raymore, then head back to the big house. I’ve got to check on progress there and then I’m going to Luverne to see Aunt Stella.”
“Whatever for?” Mae-Jo asked. “It’s not the weekend.”
Again I looked at Karol, she at me, and then back to Mae-Jo. “I’ve got some questions, Aunt Mae-Jo,” I said. “And she’s got answers.”
Hours later I pulled into the driveway of the big house where Valentine Bach stood on one side of the wraparound porch, pointing toward the threshold of the door and speaking words I could not hear to one of the workers. I sat and stared for a moment. This man, this aging man with wild hair and stooped shoulders, was somehow familiar enough to Aunt Stella to take her child. Her infant daughter. I pondered a moment a conversation I’d had with the old builder; the first I’d had with him after moving to Cottonwood. He’d stood not ten feet from where he was standing now and he’d spoken of my great-grandmother. He’d commented on Stella’s lack of housekeeping . . . of my great-grandmother’s ability to keep a nice home. But, he’d said, he’d only heard this. He’d never come inside until after they’d died.
Remembering this made what I now knew all the more odd.
I got out of the car and walked toward the house. Seeing me, Mr. Valentine nodded, spoke a final word or two to his worker, and then joined me. Reaching me, he tipped his hat from his head then returned it to its place. “Didn’t see you yesterday,” he said.
“I was in Raymore and Savannah,” I answered. “Mr. Valentine, I need to ask you a couple of questions.” From the corner of my eye I saw Arizona pull the Geo up to the curb.
I glanced over as Mr. Valentine said, “She’s bringing me my pills I forgot to take this morning.” He took a step toward the car.
“Oh,” I said. “Mr. Valentine, I really need to talk to you.”
He turned back to me. “No, ma’am. You’re going to ask me about whatever you found in that room, and I can’t answer you. I promised Stella a long time ago.”
“That’s just it, Mr. Valentine. Why did you promise her? What kind of relationship—other than dating—did you two have?”
He turned fully to look at me as the car door opened and Arizona stepped out. He placed his hands on his hips and said, “We didn’t date, missy. We were in love.”
I opened my mouth to reply but then shut it. There was something about his voice, something strong and commanding. Something haunted by a memory I had no business trying to bring to mind.
Arizona reached us then, and Valentine turned toward her. She extended a small bag to her great-grandfather along with a plastic bottle of water. “Here ya go, Pappy. Ga-Ga said to tell you that you can run but you can’t hide and that I’m to stand here until I see you take the pills.”
She grinned at him, blue eyes sparkling in the late-morning sunlight, as he opened the bag and muttered, “That daughter of mine can sure be a nuisance.”
I was struck then with the sense of falling and spinning, all at the same time. I looked from the old man—Bettina’s father—to his great-granddaughter. She has his eyes, I thought. She has his eyes!
I took a step back.
“Miss Jo-Lynn?” Arizona peered at me with her head cocked. “You okay?”
I nodded, taking another step and then another. Valentine Bach turned his head from staring at the contents of the bag to peering over at me. Santa Claus looking from his bag of goodies to the longing, hopeful child. Taking in my expression, he straightened.
“She has your eyes,” I said.
Arizona shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “Of course I do,” she said. “I’m his great-granddaughter, after all.”
“That’s right, missy,” he said to me, understanding flooding his face and softening his weathered features. “That’s right.”